


Red Silk Dress

by Anonymous



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Brother/Brother Incest, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, FE3H Kinkmeme, Forced Crossdressing, Humiliation, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Incest, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Public Sex, Rape, Sibling Incest, Voyeurism, implied gang rape, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:22:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27199142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The red garment spills between his fingers as he lifts it, and at first he thinks it’s a silky robe until he takes a closer look. In his hands he holds a fine dress, delicately embroidered with pearlescent beads and silver ribbon.“Are you fucking kidding me?” he huffs, staring at the dress.“H-he specifically asked that you wear that,” the other girl, who had been silent thus far, speaks up. “I’m sorry.”Sylvain can’t answer. His mind is a million miles away, back to his childhood.Come on, Sylvie, be a good girl._____Fill for FE3H Kinkmeme
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Miklan, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Others
Comments: 3
Kudos: 57
Collections: Anonymous





	Red Silk Dress

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:
> 
> I’ve heard in the Japanese version of the game Miklan calls Sylvain a girl and young lady as a form of mockery. According to some Japanese fans I spoke to, お嬢さん is a word that refers to a good or pretty girl and that Miklan uses it as an insult.
> 
> ...So I’d like to see Miklan kidnap his brother during the battle for the lance, force him into a pretty dress and rape him in front of his men whilst mocking him about how pretty he is etc. Make Miklan as mean, filthy and sordid as you like.
> 
> Entirely up to anon if they want Sylvain to be rescued.  
> ____
> 
> Sylvain is a cis man in this story, but Miklan repeatedly refers to him using female terms, i.e. girl, lady, princess. Also, he refers to Sylvain's ass as a pussy.
> 
> \-----
> 
> Hope you like it, anon!

Things had not gone well. Miklan’s bandits had proved too overwhelming for the Blue Lions to subdue on their own, and the professor had begrudgingly ordered a retreat. Which, would have been fine.

If it hadn’t meant leaving Sylvain behind.

He tries not to be bitter as he waits for something, _anything_ to happen. He tries not to be afraid. Miklan had grinned like a wolf as he towered over Sylvain, beaten and bloodied by his men once they’d tied him up. Sylvain is treated like baggage as the bandits scramble to get away from Conand Tower, bound and gagged in a cart on the several days trek to a new hideout for them to lay low in lest the Knights of Seiros find them once more.

He is given little to drink, just a few sips of dirty, foul smelling water each morning. The bandits laugh as they taunt him with bits of jerky that he isn’t able to eat, his stomach painfully empty. His whole body aches from the way he’s bound, unable to stretch his muscles. And the whole way, Miklan pays him no mind, not even to insult him or taunt him or beat him. He almost wishes he would, just so Sylvain has some sense that Miklan has some sort of reason for all of the trouble, rather than just killing him and being done with him.

Sylvain has little sense of where they are when he’s hauled out of the cart and dragged into a dilapidated fortress Goddess only knows how many days later. He has only the vaguest notion that they’d begun the journey heading north, deeper into Fraldarius territory.

The bandits promptly shove him into a cell, shackle his ankle to an old, rusty yet sturdy chain that is embedded into the wall, and toss him a waterskin and a few strips of jerky before graciously untying him and leaving him to his devices.

The cell is cramped, claustrophobic, and dank. Sylvain chews slowly on the tough, tasteless jerky, sitting on the thin, rotted mat that serves as a bed. Cold seeps into his bones from the stone, and he shivers without so much as a blanket to keep warm.

And through all of it, still nothing from Miklan.

Scared young women with bruised faces and wrists red from being tied tend to Sylvain, no doubt girls abducted from a nearby village. They keep their eyes downcast as they bring him his food and water each morning and clean the bucket that’s been left in the corner as a chamber pot. At first, he tries to talk to them, but they simply flinch and scuttle away.

Four days pass like this – Sylvain thinks, anyway – when the girls come in early in the evening, which is unusual; normally, they only come in the morning. One approaches him slowly, trembling, a rusted key in hand.

“What’s going on?” Sylvain askes, voice hoarse, making the girl jump.

“Th-the master wishes to see you.” The master. The sound of it makes Sylvain’s stomach roll. “Please, if you don’t come quietly, he’ll-”

“I’ll come,” he assures her, standing slowly. “Okay?” With a lip caught between her teeth, she nods and stoops to unlock the shackle from his ankle. The skin underneath is red and raw. He walks between the two women, through winding halls lit by flickering torches. A few of the bandits mill about or stand guard in the halls, leering at the three of them as they pass.

They lead Sylvain to a room warmed by a crackling fire. A tub of water sits in the middle of the floor, steam curling off the surface invitingly. “The master asked that you bathe.” Which is strange, but Miklan always played strange mind games with Sylvain, growing up, and he doesn’t want him to hurt the poor girls for his sake, so he decides to oblige the request.

The girls shy away as Sylvain strips off his filthy uniform and sinks into the water. It’s hot and inviting, and for the first time in days Sylvain is warm. One of the girls takes away his dirty clothes and returns with some folded garment in a bright red color. Unlike everything Sylvain has seen in the fortress, the cloth looks new and well-kept.

Taking only few moments to revel in the warm water, Sylvain cleans the grime off his skin and out of his hair. Though he’s still half-starved, he feels better than he had in over a week. Knowing Miklan, the moment won’t last.

The moment, as it turns out, ends almost immediately after Sylvain climbs out of the water and dries off with a ratty towel. The red garment spills between his fingers as he lifts it, and at first he thinks it’s a silky robe until he takes a closer look. In his hands he holds a fine dress, delicately embroidered with pearlescent beads and silver ribbon.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he huffs, staring at the dress.

“H-he specifically asked that you wear that,” the other girl, who had been silent thus far, speaks up. “I’m sorry.”

Sylvain can’t answer. His mind is a million miles away, back to his childhood. _Come on, Sylvie, be a good girl._ Being push to his knees, their mother’s red lipstick smeared over his lips. _Open wide_. Being bent over a desk, biting his own hand hard enough to draw blood as Miklan forced himself inside. _Your pussy’s so tight._ Failing to hold back his sobs, cheeks wet with tears. _Aw, did I make the little princess cry?_

A shudder runs down Sylvain’s spine. He had dared to hope that whatever Miklan wants with him, they’d long since left this… aspect of their relationship in the past. Thus far, Sylvain’s done a remarkable job burying the horrible memories deep in the recesses of his mind, keeping it buried by fucking everything in a skirt, and only reliving it in his nightmares.

But with the dress in his hands, Sylvain knows deep in his stomach that he was stupid to think so. Miklan reveled in hurting Sylvain in whatever ways he could, after all. Why would that have changed?

He pulls the dress on with trembling hands. It fits him surprisingly well, the bodice low over his chest, accentuating his well-toned muscle. The sleeves billow around his biceps, the loose fabric ending just over his wrists. The skirts is two-layered and slinky, one layer whipping around his ankles, the other gathered in the back, cinched around his waist. He was given no underthings, and the cold air that flutters up the skirt makes him shiver.

He’s given no shoes, and has no choice but to follow the girls barefoot. The floor is freezing, and he wishes he could pretend that’s why he shivers violently. The leers that follow them now are worse, men whistling like wolves, calling out derogatory insults, and trying to lift his skirt as they pass. He tries to keep his chin up through it all.

The next room they enter is larger and cleaner than the rest, three long wooden tables set evenly over the space. Two massive hearths stoked with plenty of wood provide roaring fires that stave off the cold. Bandits sit at benches along the tables, raucous with laughter as they eat and drink with abandon. The room is full of the smell of cooked meat, probably wild game poached from the surrounding forests.

At the head of the middle-most table, Miklan sits in a faded, plush chair like a king on a throne. Only about a dozen of his men seem to have earned the honor of dining at the leader’s table, and they are some of the most brutish and menacing men Sylvain had seen among the bandits. His table is set with the best looking food and the nicest bottles of mead.

He eyes Sylvain like a piece of meat from across the room.

The girls scurry away, leaving Sylvain alone. Miklan doesn’t have to speak; the look in his eyes tells Sylvain that he will join him, or else. With numb feet, Sylvain passes between the tables toward his brother’s side. Like their companions in the halls, they whistle and jeer, but none dare touch him under the eyes of their leader. The implication is clear; Sylvain is _his_.

Before Sylvain can even think of something to say as he comes to a stop next to Miklan, a large, rough hand grabs him around the middle and he is yanked into Miklan’s lap with an indignant yelp. Miklan reeks of blood, sweat, and alcohol. “Finally,” he booms, “our guest of honor has graced us with his presence. Everyone had best bow down to the fair princess.” This is met with a chorus of laughter.

“What are you doing, Miklan?” he dares to ask.

The hand tightens around him. “We’re celebrating our victory, Sylvie.” This is only loud enough for Sylvain to hear, not for the ears of his men. “After all, we got the Lance and we beat back the Knights of Seiros. It would be most improper to deny the _heir_ of House Gautier an invitation to such a grand feast, yeah?”

Sylvain doesn’t answer, and Miklan doesn’t seem to care. He drags his plate closer and rips off a chunk of some mystery hunk of fire-roasted meat with his fingers and presses the morsel to Sylvain’s lips, much to the amusement of the bandits around them. Miklan pushes insistently when Sylvain doesn’t immediately open his mouth and grease smears over his chin before he finally relents. His brother shoves the bite in his mouth roughly, grimy fingers brushing over his tongue.

His cheeks burn as Miklan continues to feed him with one hand while the other palms him roughly through the silky fabric of the dress, his traitorous cock twitching in interest at the friction. The older Gautier makes no attempt to hide this from prying eyes as he continues his ministrations. Everyone knows how this dinner will end; the bandit leader will drag his captive to his bedchamber and claim the spoils of war.

Humiliation and shame curdle in Sylvain’s stomach. It wasn’t as if this was new; Sylvain was painfully acquainted with paying the price of his body for the crime of being born with a Crest, but something about it happening in plain sight and knowing there was no one there to save him seems to make it all the worse.

All too soon, the plates empty, the tankards of mead drained. Further more kidnapped women forced to serve the bandits scurry by, collecting the dishes and whisking them away as lecherous hands grope at them before disappearing back to where there is presumably a kitchen. All eyes fall on Miklan, leering as they watch their leader’s hands continue kneading Sylvain through the dress, one still pawing at his cock while the newly freed one pinches and twists his nipples painfully. Sylvain bites his lip, trying to keep from squirming under his brother’s touch.

“Now that we’ve had our dinner,” Miklan booms, forcing Sylvain to his feet in front of the chair, “how about a show?” He barely has time to process his brother’s words before he is shoved down against the hard wood of the table, cheek digging into the splintering surface as Miklan plants his meaty hand around the back of Sylvain’s neck.

Panic blooms in Sylvain’s chest, heart thundering in his ears over the whoops and cheers of the bandits around them. He had horribly misread his situation. Miklan isn’t going to retreat with Sylvain into his chamber at all.

He’s going to fuck him right there, front and center in the dining hall.

For the first time, Sylvain struggles against Miklan’s grasp. The older man holds him easily, undeterred by the hands that scrabble blindly at his burly arms. Sylvain’s been deprived adequate food and water for days; he’s too weak to fight back. “No,” he pleads as he feels the slinky fabric trailing up the back of his thighs, “Miklan, please. Not here.”

“What’s wrong, _sweetheart?_ ” the bandit leader coos. “Shy all of sudden, are we?”

The skirt of the dress is bunched around his hips and he feels goosebumps rise on his bare skin despite the comfortable warmth of the dining hall. A thick finger prods at his hole, rough with callous and dry. Suddenly, the audience is the least of his worries. “Oil, at least,” he begs, voice ragged and pathetic in his own ears; Miklan loved to make him beg. “Please. Please, Miklan.” A choked sob claws free when the digit is forced in to the first knuckle, wiggling tauntingly.

It hurts. Even just that small intrusion hurts without oil to ease the way. Or, flames, he would even settle for spit. Something. _Anything_. The thought of Miklan taking him dry with his thick cock is enough to send tears welling in the corners of Sylvain’s eyes. “Come on, you’re so pretty when you cry, Sylvie,” he sneers, but the finger mercifully withdraws. “But since you asked so nicely, always such a proper young lady…”

When the finger prods at him again, it’s cold and slick with oil. Sylvain can feel himself practically melt with relief against the table, a shuddering sigh wracking through his chest. Until Miklan plunges two thick fingers deep inside him with no fanfare. He cries out, nails digging into the wood heedless of the splinters he feels pierce into his skin. Miklan sets a brutal pace, fingering him open impatiently, and not even granting him the small fraction of pleasure of rubbing at his prostate. He’s just the wrong side of prepared for the third finger to slip in, a groan punched from him at the burning stretch. Stinging slaps ring out as Miklan spanks the taut flesh of his rear in rhythm with his thrusts, and Sylvain realizes with a sick shudder of shame that he’s hard and leaking from the treatment.

The fingers withdraw, leaving him now almost painfully empty, stretched hole clenching around nothing. He can hear the slick sound of Miklan coating his length in oil, giving a few steady pumps to bringing it to full hardness before the head prods at his entrance. Sylvain doesn’t breathe as he sheaths himself fully in a single merciless thrust. He gives Sylvain no time to adjust to the abrupt stretch of his girth before he’s pounding hard and fast into the tight heat of his brother’s ass. A harsh hand wraps into a fistful of Sylvain’s hair and he jerks him back, forcing his head up for his thugs to see. He’s sure he looks a mess, cheeks ruddy with flush, scratched on one side from the rugged surface of the table, wet with tears.

Through slitted eyes, he sees the men grinning like leches, palming their own cocks as they watch intently. All of them, it seems, every last one, is getting off on watching their leader rape his own brother. Sylvain wants to be sick.

“Your pussy’s so tight, Sylvie” Miklan grunts behind him, rhythm stuttering for a moment as he shifts, fucking Sylvain at a new angle that finally drives into the sensitive spot inside him that makes his eyes roll back in his head. “You were always such a slut for my cock. Do you remember?” Sylvain doesn’t answer, biting his lip hard enough that he tastes blood. “You would crawl into my bed and beg me to fuck you, fuck yourself on my cock. Always so pretty stretched around me.” He teases at the seam where their bodies join with a thumb, and Sylvain groans pitifully.

“Mik-” he sobs, his resolve to take what he’s given without giving his brother the satisfaction of making him enjoy it starting to crack like thin ice on a lake in winter. He sobs because it’s true. Miklan hurt Sylvain with pain, sure, but he hurt him with pleasure too, muddling the lines in his mind that separated the two. Once upon a time, Sylvain had craved the pleasure that accompanied the pain, taking what scraps of attention his brother deigned to throw him, _begging for them_.

“That’s it, baby girl,” he coos mockingly, and Sylvain can hear the grin in his voice. “Let everyone hear how much you love getting fucked.” _I won’t I won’t I won’t I wo-_

And Miklan’s large hand wraps around his cock, pumping him in time with his thrusts. The callouses drag over the sensitive skin, slicked by the precum that’s been beading at his slit, and Sylvain surrenders, moaning brokenly. He cums with a cry of, “Miklan!” blearily aware of the hoops and hollers of their audience.

Miklan groans as his walls spasm around him with his orgasm, managing a few more erratic thrusts before spending deep inside, familiar warmth spreading in his belly. The hand in his hair drops him unceremoniously, and Sylvain flops back down on the table, boneless and sweaty and shaking. His legs tremble, and when Miklan pulls out, his weight is supported only by the sturdy table. He can feel his brother’s spend trickling out after, rolling down his thighs.

The heat of Miklan’s body disappears from behind him as he lays panting. He hears the scrape of the chair being dragged away, a _ploof_ as Miklan sinks back down into the moth-eaten cushion. “How was the show, men?” Miklan calls, earning an enthusiastic cheer, hands thumping against tables. “As promised to my _most distinguished_ friends, your reward.”

Sylvain’s blood runs cold as the man sitting closest to Sylvain at the table stands, rubbing the bulge in his trousers, smirking at Sylvain as if he iss a delicious dessert ready to devour. “No…” he pleads, squeezing his eyes closed.

Miklan laughs. “Enjoy.”

~OoO~

Sylvain is more cold and numb than he can ever remember being.

He’s a mess of dried spend and tattered and stained red silk.

When the Knights finally catch up to them, when the professor and his friends find him in his frigid little cell on his pathetic little mattress, he’s still in the red silk dress.


End file.
